Through the Storm
by TheFreakZone
Summary: "Have you ever been torn apart from the inside? Have you ever found in yourself your worst enemy? I have, multiple times. And until very recently I thought I'd gotten used to it." Having barely survived a civil war, Spain faces with dread the possibility of being forced to join WWII; a feeling only worsened by a visit he'd rather not receive. One-shot.


_AN: This is one of those stories I wrote on a whim. I guess I was in the mood for some historical drama_ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ _(Also, one day I'll manage to write a proper summary u_u)_

 _Hetalia - Hidekaz Himayura_

 _Cover art - MoonyL00ny (DeviantArt)_

* * *

 **THROUGH THE STORM**

The sky outside is grey. Dark, heavy clouds cover the sun, threatening to start spilling any minute. Save for the occasional whistling of the wind, not a single sound can be heard. There's no birds tweeting, children laughing, people chattering. Everything's dead.

I feel dead.

I wish I was dead.

Have you ever been torn apart from the inside? Have you ever found in yourself your worst enemy? I have, multiple times. And until very recently I thought I'd gotten used to it. I'm old, and civil wars have always been a constant in my history. Big and small, long and short, silly and bloody — I'd seen everything.

But then came the last one, and nothing could have prepared me for that.

It's been a few months since it ended, and I still haven't recovered. The wound on my chest—right over my heart—bleeds from time to time; I'm not sure if it'll ever fully heal. Today, at least, it looks like it'll behave. I rub it carefully over the pyjama shirt, my absentminded gaze staring out the window.

There's a knock on the door. Before I can say anything, it's pushed open and someone (a high military rank, I suppose, though I can't see him because he's at my back) walks in and says: "The Germans have arrived. Your presence is required to greet them."

I shudder. I know why they're here: they want me to join them in this second Great War they've started. I don't want to, yet I fear I may have to. I'm run by the military now — war is their business. They won't mind that I can hardly leave my bed in the mornings, or that my people are starving. _El Generalísimo_ will want to return the support he received from the _Führer_ and the _Duce_ during the civil war, and if that means forcing me into a war I can't fight, he won't hesitate.

I wish I could slide back in my bed and sleep for the next fifty years, give or take.

But I can't. The Germans are here, and my presence is required.

As I button up my blue shirt with shaky hands, I wonder if only humans have come or if Germany himself has decided I'm worthy of his time and has dropped by as well. I hope he hasn't — his presence brings back painful memories of a child I helped Austria raise, once. He's not one I've ever been very close to, but I'll be glad if he isn't here.

I'll only need ten minutes (what takes me to drag myself all the way to the hall) to change my mind. Now I _wish_ it was Germany standing in front of me.

The first one I see is Prussia. We haven't met in a long time — he looks bigger than I remembered (or perhaps it's me who's smaller?) and he stands in the middle of the room as if he owned it. An attitude not foreign to him, yes, but it feels different today. It may be his imposing uniform—all black, the Iron Cross on his collar and a red band with a Swastika around his arm—or maybe it's the coldness in his red eyes; either way, I get the feeling that this time he _does_ believe he owns the room. He will own Europe, the whole world even, if no one stops him. His mere presence is terrifying.

And suddenly I understand what France meant.

~{§}~

He came for a visit years ago, before the war, back when I was still happy and optimistic. I took him for a walk and talked to him nonstop about my relatively new Republic. He looked surprised when I told him that women could vote, and he gave me a handmade bracelet with the colours of my new flag: red, yellow, purple. (I kept it close to me during the war. When it ended, they took it from me and I had to watch it burn.) If he noticed that I was purposefully leaving out the bad things, he didn't mention it.

He had his own problems to worry about.

"Have—Have you seen Prussia lately?" he asked, worry in his voice.

"No," I answered truthfully. "I haven't seen him since…" I trailed off. _Since the Great War ended_ , I wanted to say, but I was afraid that had become a rather sensitive topic between the three of us. Both France and Prussia were upset that I hadn't picked a side, and I was mad at them for having allowed the conflict to grow so big and break the three of us apart.

"I see," France hummed, understanding the meaning of my silence. He made a pause, as if to order his thoughts. "I saw him a few months ago. He freaked me out."

"How come?"

"He looked so pissed off, so… so _angry_. That wasn't the Prussia we know. He was terrifying."

 _He has a right to be pissed off_ , I wanted to say. _You and England had no mercy with him after the war_ — _it's because of_ you _that he's been in deep shit for the last few years_. I sympathized with Prussia's situation (I had one too many experiences with lousy money management), yet at the same time I understood France's fear.

"I'm scared of what he might do," France went on, nervously running a hand through his hair. "He and Germany, they're arming themselves, and when they strike they'll go after my head, I know it."

"You'll have England on your side," I said in an attempt at lifting his spirit. But he chuckled humourlessly and shook his head, as if he doubted the loyalty of his old enemy and recent ally. "Hey, come on." I patted his shoulder in support. "Everything will be alright."

Little did I know.

I was only a few months away from the worst experience of my life.

~{§}~

This is the first time I've seen Prussia since I talked to France back then, and now I understand why he was so scared. He looks like a bomb ready to blow, fuelled by rage and resentment. There's a dark, menacing aura about him.

It pains me to see him like that. As of today, I still consider him my friend (though I can't help but wonder if the feeling is returned).

Then my gaze moves to the one standing next to Prussia, and my heart clenches painfully in my chest. Why is _he_ here? That's just plain cruel.

Romano's golden eyes find mine for a second and he immediately looks away.

He's so grown up. The old memory of a feisty child, quick to pick a fight and quicker to retreat, doesn't seem to match the young man in front of me, clad in a military uniform and covered in medals.

The uniform fits him perfectly, and I hate every fibre of it.

I'm suddenly pushed forward, and I realize that they've finished with the introductions. Prussia is in front of me, a cold smile on his face, and he offers his hand for a shake. "Spain," he says, capturing my hand with his. "It's good to see you again."

My hand suffers under his strong grasp. "You too," I mumble back, barely able to hide a pained expression. I wonder if he hasn't realized how weak I am, or if he has realized but doesn't care.

Romano still doesn't look me in the eye when he shakes my hand, but his hold is much softer and careful, and I silently thank him for that. His touch is familiar and comforting—it does wonders to my aching chest.

Then Prussia slides an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him, and everything feels wrong again. "We haven't seen each other in ages," he says. "Let's go somewhere private and catch up, hm?"

An offer I literally can't refuse. He pushes me with him as he makes his way to an empty room, Romano dragging his feet behind us, and I feel like a lamb going to the slaughterhouse. I see, on the corner of my eye, how the human parties leave on another direction, and the way the Spanish are practically licking the floor under the Germans make me feel sick. Prussia might actually drag me into this war just as easily as he's dragging me to the room.

"Well, well, well, look at you!" he exclaims when we're finally alone, patting my back so brutally I lose my balance. There'll be a bruise there tomorrow, I know it. "Ready to come lend us a hand? You owe us."

I give him a weak smile, but my gaze looks at Romano for support. He avoids me once again. "I don't think I'd be of much help," I say apologetically. "It's not my best moment, if you hadn't noticed."

"You don't look that bad to me." He frowns. "Does that mean you don't plan to help me?"

I tense, sensing danger. Prussia puts a hand on my shoulder and another on my cheek; a gesture that may seem friendly, but that definitely isn't. His fingers are digging on my shoulder, like an eagle's claw, and I feel the hand against my face is ready to attack my neck. I am acutely aware now of how much he has changed, and I know that, old friendship be dammed, if he doesn't like my answers, he will crush me without hesitation or regret.

"You will pick a side this time, yes? And it won't be _France's_." The sheer disgust with which he spits the name makes me shiver. He goes on, the claw on my shoulder tightening its grip: "You are with me now, aren't you?"

For a moment, I'm very tempted to give him the reply that'll grant me a beating. I want to see how far he'll go, what Romano will do. Not so secretly, I'm hopeful he may kill me.

But then I stare for a split second into his red eyes — they betray madness, hunger for power and thirst for payback, and the thought of rebelling vanishes. "Yes," I mumble, downcast. "Yes, of course I'm with you." I don't want to be on the receiving end of Prussia's wrath.

Satisfied, he releases me. "I always knew you were clever, Toni" he laughs darkly, ruffling my hair. I don't like hearing the fond nickname said in such a dark manner, but I don't complain. He turns to talk to Romano and I rub my sore shoulder. "He's smarter than you give him credit for," Prussia says, nudging him. "Don't you have anything to say?"

"Any help we can get will be welcome," Romano mutters, monotone, as if it were a rehearsed line.

And he still won't look at me.

~{§}~

The last time I saw France, he had come for a visit again, but the setting couldn't be more different.

I was submerged in the worst civil war I'd ever experienced. I didn't eat and barely drank. Days passed in a haze, and I only knew pain — constant, excruciating pain. It would have hurt less if I had clawed my heart out.

I still don't know how France found me. He just showed up one day, England behind him, and he flopped down on the ground next to me and hugged me for a long time, comforting me. France has always been well-versed on pain.

Sobbing on his shoulder, I begged him to help me. He promised he'd shelter every Spaniard who went to him running away from the war. "I'm afraid I can't do much else," he added, genuinely sad.

I managed to ask what he meant.

England answered in his place: "We—and by that I mean all of Europe—made an agreement not to interfere in this war. Only volunteers are allowed to come."

I would have laughed at that, had I remembered how to. Instead, those words enraged me.

"Well, that's working _wonderfully_ ," I snarled.

"Spain—"

"I suppose all those Germans and Italians are here on holiday."

" _Spain_ —"

"Do you want to see me bleed so badly?"

"Do you not understand the situation we're all in?!" England finally snapped. "We're on the verge of a second Great War! Any spark might trigger it! Germany and Prussia just need a reason, small as it may be, to launch the first attack—and I won't let you become that reason!"

I was barely listening to him. I didn't care about his motives; all that mattered was that his decisions had condemned me. And he knew that. With the little strength I had left, I pulled him down to my level to look him in the eye, and the words simply left me:

"Why don't you just kill me?"

England's jaw fell, all his anger replaced by stupor. I heard France gasp.

"S-Spain, I—That's not—" England stuttered, taken aback.

"Kill me," I repeated my petition, staring straight into his eyes

They shared a helpless look. "You can't ask that of us, dear," France said, softly.

I let go of England's shirt and pulled away from them. "Then leave," I mumbled. "Go away."

"But—"

"You're no help at all. Just go."

"Spain—"

"I said _GO_!"

Maybe they left after that; maybe they stayed a little longer. I'm not sure. By then, I was no longer paying them any attention—my mind was back to the pain and the loss. I felt every shot, every bomb, every family torn apart. I cried for those who chose exile; I bled for those who chose to stay and fight. I screamed until I lost my voice after the bombing of Guernica; I fell silent after the murder of my beloved Federico.

And then, when it was finally over, my relief was clouded by the knowledge that what was to come may actually be worse.

~{§}~

The chat with Prussia is long and exhausting. I have to be careful not to say anything that will trigger him (I've wisely decided that, as it is now, I don't want him as my enemy), and his detailed descriptions of how he plans to crush France make my head spin and my stomach feel sick. I sit quietly on my armchair, equal to the one Prussia is sprawled on, and I try to focus on breathing, smiling when he laughs, and giving the shortest possible answers to his questions. Romano is somewhere around us, maybe listening but no actively participating.

I don't know for how long it goes, but eventually Prussia decides to call it a day. It's his time for a bath and a good night's sleep. "I'll be back on the battlefield tomorrow," he says with a good mood that doesn't match such grim words. "I need to be well rested to properly slaughter my enemies!"

The door closes shut with a loud _bang_ behind him. I grimace and drop my head on my hands. Now that Prussia and his sinister monologue are gone, I can hear the rain pouring outside. It's a calm sound that used to comfort me, but that now only makes my chest ache. Thunder roars outside; I flinch.

Then I hear the rustling of fabric, and I remember I'm not alone.

I raise my head and see Romano standing in front of me.

For the first time, he's staring back at me. At this short distance, I can see in his amber eyes the pain he so desperately tries to hide. Despite everything, the shadow of a smile makes it to my lips. I can still read my dear Romano like an open book; the familiar feeling lifts a weight off my heart. I can't help but wonder, is it me he's suffering for?

"Hey," he says, low.

"Hey," I repeat.

"I-I didn't come here to make you join us in the war," he confesses.

"No?"

Romano shakes his head. "I wanted to check on you," he admits. It may be my imagination, but I could swear his ears go red. "How are you?"

I hesitate for a moment before replying: "What does it look like?"

"You look like shit," is his blatant response.

"I feel like shit. I am in deep shit." This time I manage a humourless chuckle. Romano smiles nervously, and the medals on his chest jingle when he awkwardly moves his weight from one leg to the other. "That uniform suits you," I comment half-heartedly.

"Thanks," he mumbles. This time his blush is real.

"I hate it."

He tilts his head, waiting for an explanation.

"I hate seeing you in the middle of such big and bloody wars," I sigh. "It's not your thing. You're an artist, not a soldier."

For a moment, his eyes recover that sassy glint I'm used to. He walks closer and leans towards me, his face serious. "I'm sorry to say it like this, but it's no longer your job to protect me," he states.

"I know," I retort, taking a hand to his cheek. "I hate that, too."

Romano frowns and takes my hand with his to examine it. He must have felt how bony it is. For the first time, he takes a proper look at me, and I see in his eyes the moment he realizes how skinny I am. My clothes do a good job at concealing it, but under my shirt my ribs stick out so much it's almost painful.

His voice shakes when he asks when I did last eat something. I shrug in reply. I don't know. I don't remember. Who cares. I can't eat anything.

"You can't, or you won't?" Romano asks then, stern.

There's one I can never fool. It's true that I can't — I throw up everything. But it's also true that I won't. I don't have it in myself to eat while my people starve. He must already know this. He knows me a bit too well. "Does it matter?" I reply.

"You—" His voice breaks, and he needs to take a deep breath before going on. "You need to take care of yourself."

"What for?"

Nothing happens for a few seconds. And then, suddenly, I'm pulled up with ease and I find myself between Romano's arms. His embrace is strong, because he doesn't want to let me go, yet also careful so as not to hurt my weakened body.

"Don't give up," he whispers, his voice quivering. "You need to survive this."

Taken aback by the sudden hug, I return it slowly and tentatively, wrapping my arms around him. Only now do I realize how desperately in need of this I'd been. Before I know it, tears are rolling down my cheeks. "I'm scared," I confess, sobbing on his shoulder. "I don't know what's going to happen. I-I don't know if I'm strong enough."

"Of course you are," he reassures me, a hand stroking my hair. "You're the strongest person I've ever known."

His faith in me is overwhelming. It rescues fragments of my former optimism from deep within; makes me take a deep breath and gather all my courage. I will survive this.

"No storm lasts forever," he mumbles. This time, my smile is the widest it's been for the last three years. I taught him that, a long time ago.

The hug grows warmer.

Outside, the rain stops falling and some timid sunrays make it through the clouds.

And, for a moment, all my broken pieces are back together.

* * *

 _AN: This is where I'd write historical notes. I'm not going to, though, because I know I'd start ranting about the Spanish Civil War and in the end this Author's Note would be longer than the story itself. That being said, I will gladly answer any questions you may have; feel free to ask!_

 _Anyway, I hope you liked it. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated! n_n_


End file.
